April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.

I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.

What should I be but just what I am?

I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.

Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom golden in the green grass, this life can be.

I find that I never lose Bach. I don't know why I have always loved him so. Except that he is so pure, so relentless and incorruptible, like a principle of geometry.